Seen and Not Heard by Anne Stuart Page B

learned.
    Malgreave shook his head. “I wish it were that easy. You heard the report, Josef. Was this woman confused, disturbed?”
    “Madame Bonheur? Not according to the dispatcher. She sounded very sensible.” Josef glared at his subordinate. There was no love lost between the two men. Josef disapproved of Vidal’s cowboy ways and brightly colored jeans. Vidal couldn’t be bothered to disapprove of Josef’s stodginess in return, a fact which made Josef even more hostile. In easier times Malgreave used to enjoy setting them against each other. He learned a great deal about both of them when they were quarreling.
    There was no time for that now. “Not sensible enough to keep strange men out of her apartment on rainy nights.” Malgreave leaned forward and tapped Vidal on the shoulder. “Drive fast, Vidal. She’ll be chopped into little pieces at the rate you’re going.”
    Vidal nodded, grinning, and the car skidded around a corner. Malgreave leaned back with a sigh. “We’ll be too late, I know it.”
    “The police station was only three blocks away,” Josef soothed him. “They should have made it in time.”
    Malgreave shook his head. “We’ll be too late.” And leaning back against the uncomfortable seat, he shut his eyes wearily, preparing himself for blood and death.
    It shouldn’t have been like that, Yvon thought as he stumbled through the back alley. There shouldn’t have been so much blood. He was covered with it, swimming in it, and still the old lady had fought. He was so much younger, so much stronger, and yet the frail, aristocratic old woman had had the strength of tigers.
    And then there was the dog. The damned stupid yapping dog, attacking his ankles, barking and yelping and raging at him. No sooner had he finally finished with the old lady than he’d had to contend with the furious assault of the tiny poodle.
    He chased him all over the apartment, trailing bloodyfootprints. He’d caught the wretched brute by the back door, finished with him, and flung the little carcass across the room. And then he’d heard them, pounding at the front entrance, and he knew he’d taken too long.
    He didn’t dare go back to the living room. He’d left the old lady where she’d fallen; he hadn’t been able to arrange her properly, to do all the small, ritual things he’d promised he would do. This wouldn’t count, he’d bungled it, he’d have to do it again, properly next time, or he wouldn’t be free.
    He was sobbing as he fumbled with the back door, muttering over and over to himself as he staggered out into the rain. The back alley was dark, deserted, only the rank smell of garbage mixing with the heavy, metallic odor of blood and sour sweat. He slammed the door behind him, seeing his bloody fingerprints with blind eyes, and stumbled into the darkness.
    There was no escape. There were dark figures at the end of the alley, milling around. He would have to hide, back among the garbage, and wait for daylight. Wait for them to give up, to go back to their cars and their police station and realize it was hopeless. They were too clever for the police; even hopeless, bumbling Yvon was too clever for them.
    He tucked himself back among the battered garbage cans, ducking his head beneath the heavy onslaught of rain. He should have realized, should have planned it better. When they were young he had always screwed things up. The others had teased him unmercifully. Gilles had hit him, hurt him, his brutish bullying somehow less devastating than the quiet contempt of his idol. From him he had suffered pinches, slaps, and soft, jeering laughter.
    He would laugh again, if he wasn’t too angry. He would read in the paper how Yvon had once more screwed up, and unless it endangered him he would simply shake his beautiful head, sigh, and say, “Poor Yvon. He never could do anything right.”
    Gilles was another matter. If he made it past the police, made it home safely to his apartment just three blocks